


Aftermath

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Coping, Couch Sex, Drinking, Eating, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Happy Ending, Healing, Inhumans (Marvel), Kissing, Living Together, Loneliness, Mirrors, Misunderstandings, Partnership, Patterns, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals, Weddings, mentions of previous failed relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something I started before the mid-season finale and was wondering how to finish it and so, thank you, 3x10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

She comes into his office. Late.

“I just brought these for you,” she says, adding to the stack of files on his desk.  
  
“Fine.”

He doesn’t even look up, and she knows he could use some company, but he acts like he's immune to the idea at the moment.  
  
Doesn't want it.  Won't ask.

She’s not totally oblivious to the fact that Rosalind was the first person he’s been intimate with since he came back from the dead.

Going from that kind of intimacy, back to none at all has to be rough. 

Feeling like the person you shared yourself with was punished just for daring to care about you.   
  
And all his soft edges have disappeared for now and he sits on either side of composed or angry.

She wants to believe that part of him is still there.  Has to.  
  
“Do you want some company?”  
  
He looks up at her like the idea is unwelcome, a little taken aback.  
  
“It's late. I'm not interested in conversation.”  
  
She hesitates, then works up the nerve.  
  
“We don’t have to talk.”  
  
He freezes and she tries not to smile.  
  
Not because she was joking, not really, she's just very nervous, and now she's worried he'll misread that, the whole thing, she thinks, fidgeting.

Companionship, not the other thing.  She’s with Lincoln.

They’ve been able to sit in companionable silence before.  
  
His mask breaks for a moment. He looks confused and turns away from her in his chair.

“Phil-“ she starts, wanting to explain.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
She does.

 

#

  
Two weeks later, during a debrief they're alone in his office again and evaluating new Inhumans for the team.  
  
He almost seems like his old self for a moment, getting to exercise his profiling muscles, when he stops on a detail and she knows whose file it is.  
  
“No,” he says, his voice tight.  Shuts the file.  
  
“He's not Ward,” she insists.  
  
“Close enough,” he says pushing it back across at her.  
  
“Director,” she says, frustrated reaching out her hand to take it.  
  
She doesn't mean to, she would never, not after-  
  
But they touch.  
  
And she tries to look away then she sees the twitch in his jaw.  
  
They both awkwardly draw their hands back at the same time, and her fingers are still tingling.  
  
It’s not like she's starved for physical contact these days. Things with Lincoln are fine. It’s fine.  
  
“We should finish this later.”  
  
“Finish what?” she asks, a bit thrown off.  
  
When he doesn’t answer, her eyes dare to meet his and he's staring at her with an unreadable intensity.    
  
She realizes she’s biting on her bottom lip and stops, just when he stands up from behind his desk.  
  
Her fingers curl into fist, hiding against her palm as he starts to walk away.  
  
“Tomorrow. Ten should be fine,” he says, then exits.

 

#

  
They lost today, and it was a political setback, but his patience in this hemisphere is wearing thin.  
  
Like he's waiting for something to fracture, so he can act.  
  
Taking the bottle off of the shelf, he pours a glass and glances at her out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Lifting an empty glass to her in offering, she nods and walks closer.  
  
Her loss really, after all.  
  
“I hate politics,” he grouses companionably, as she takes a first sip.  
  
“And they hate us,” she says downing the glass all at once.  
  
What she means is they hate people _like_ _her_.  
  
They hate SHIELD, too, but less.  
  
Rosalind had been a potential ally here and that opportunity is long gone.  But not the apparatus she built.  
  
Funny that this would stir up such feelings in her.  She reaches around him to pour herself a bigger glass.  
  
He just watches her. Like he does now. And she kind of resents him. Or wants to.  
  
It never lasts.  
  
The thing he wanted will always be “might have been”. A maybe second chance. The possibility of a clean slate.  
  
A dream, not the reality and everything that comes with it.

She knows what he’ll say when he finds out about today. She can already hear his voice: “ _Told you so. We're monsters._ ”

“You don't do this,” he says, shaking her out of her dark thoughts.  
  
“So nice of you to notice,” she answers, brushing her fingers against the desk.  
  
“Planning on getting good and drunk?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her.  
  
“On your nice scotch, yes,” she sets down the glass in her fingers and turns it against the desk. “If you don't mind?”

He stares at her some more, at her forced smile.  
  
“Not at all,” he says, pouring himself another glass. Sounding all smooth and confident.  
  
She frowns over at him, trying to work this out.  
  
Instead she stops thinking and starts pouring another glass.  
  
“More of a whiskey girl myself,” she says, looking at the amber liquid.  
  
“Should I get the whiskey, then?” he offers.  
  
“No,” she says looking up at him over the rim of the glass. “Your scotch will do just fine.”  
  
“Pour me another?” he asks a moment later, setting his glass down.   
  
The bottle is on the desk next to her hip.  
  
“Pour your own.”  
  
He smirks at her, and steps closer, until they're almost touching.  
  
When he takes the bottle, holding her eyes, she can feel it brush her hip.  
  
Pouring a finger, he puts the bottle back, but grips the neck, so that his arm is almost around her side.

“Daisy?”

The both turn towards the interruption at the door, but Coulson puts some space between them.

She’s supposed to feel awful.

She doesn’t.

“Yeah. Coming.”

 

#

It’s bound to get her noticed, but the room only shakes for a minute, then she has control again, has to fight to maintain it.

Not for the first time lately.

She slides down to the floor with her back against the desk, and wonders how it is she ended up here, of all places.

The truth is, she knows why, and that’s distressing, too.

Then he’s standing in the door, his eyes searching the room quickly until he spots her.

“It’s fine,” she says, throwing a hand up at him. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t answer, just walks towards her, bends down until he’s sitting beside her, gets comfortable.

“I'm tired,” she goes on, before he can start in. “You should know, he took the Codex.”

“Mack told me,” he replies.

“I should’ve known better.  I wanted a team.  I thought I could make him understand, that this isn’t just about SHIELD.”

“Ah,” he says, with a sad smile.  It’s for himself, though, not her she realizes.  
  
“Everything's so messed up.”  
  
“You're not messed up,” he tells her firmly, shaking his head.  “I mean, this is messed up, yes.”  
  
“I'm a walking disaster,” she answers, getting to her feet, feeling the power buzzing under her skin again as she tries to push it back down.  
  
“That's not true,” he says, looking up at her arms, knowing what she’s looking for.  The broken capillaries, the signs of bruising. “You're the only thing that's not-“  
  
He stops himself before he gives away too much, and it’s what she wants to hear, and not at the same time.  
  
“Did he tell you that?” he asks her, lowering his eyes so she can’t look so directly into them.  
  
“He thinks what we are is a curse.”  
  
“You are _not_ a curse,” he tells her emphatically.  
  
“How can you still believe that?  After everything that’s happened.  I’m at the rotten center of it all.”

“I could use the company,” he replies. “It was getting lonely here being at the rotten center of everything.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s really not.”

 

#

“I’m done with all this stuff,” she says, standing next to him looking at his black suit.

“SHIELD?”

“Patterns,” she shakes her head. “I used to think I was so good at seeing them.  These…things that keep turning up, just happening like we can’t escape them.”

She watches as he thinks about it.

The funeral is breaking up now, it’s done, and she runs her hands along her arms, over the soft black sweater.

“Yeah,” he finally says, his eyes hidden behind his aviators. “You hungry?”

It doesn’t even sound appealing to her at all, but now that she’s thinking about it, it seems like a really good idea.

A comfort.

“Sure.”

She lets Mack know she’ll be riding with Coulson and gets into Lola beside him, as they drive in silence.

He pulls up to the curb and she shakes away the empty feeling and looks up at the sign.

“Are you kidding?” she turns to ask him.

It’s Ruthie’s Skillet.

“No,” he says quietly, then hesitates and finally unbuckles his seatbelt.

He walks around to her side and opens the door.  Waits.

This reminds her of Ward.   No.

“Let’s tempt fate,” he says, shrugging.  “Roz took me here for breakfast one morning.”

She raises an eyebrow at the implication.

“How did she know about Ruthie’s?”

“How did she know about a lot of things?” he shrugs, as she releases the seatbelt and slowly gets out.

She stares at the booth where she sat with Ward through the window.  At the one where she sat with Mike.

They walk into the restaurant, and he picks that booth, without hesitating.

“Is this where the two of you sat?”

“Yes,” he says, taking off his sunglasses.  And she can tell by the puffiness under his eyes that he’s been crying, too.

Flopping down in the seat across from him, she pulls out some sugar packets and starts lining them up on the table.

He doesn’t comment, just pulls out the menu from against the wall and starts looking at it.

“Should I order what she ordered, too?” she asks bluntly.

“No,” he says, eyes on the menu.  “You should get whatever you want.  My treat.”

She just stares at him for a moment and then feels her shoulders start to shake, and realizes she’s crying again, but harder this time.

“ _Daisy_.”

He comes over to her side and slides into the booth, puts his arm around her.

“Will you stay?” she asks, trying not to drip snot on his shirt has he grabs a napkin out of the holder for her.

“On your side?  Always.”

 

#

The breaking of patterns.

It becomes something between them, how they push each other out of their comfort zones.

It’s why he’s an Agent again.  Her partner, now that Mack’s Director.

And why she’s started dating again, even though none of it has quite stuck.

His hand touches her arm for a moment and she looks back up to see May and Andrew exchanging vows.

Then they all stand to watch them walk arm-in-arm, smiling at each other like everything is right with the world.

It’s not.

And that’s okay.

They file out of the rows, all these familiar faces and some new ones.  May’s parents and Andrew’s people.

He hands her a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and then clinks his glass against hers.

“Here’s to happy endings.”

She narrows her eyes at him, at the coy look he’s giving her.

“What?” he finally asks.

She doesn’t answer with words, just steps closer to him and gives him a simple kiss on the mouth.

Pulling away he look back at her and huffs, almost like he doesn’t believe her.

Then he puts his hand against her face, and leans in, kisses her back with clear intention, or something more.  She’s not completely sure what.

It feels like her heart wants to beat right out of her chest and she looks at his eyes, searches them carefully for any sign that this is going to ruin everything.

Then she shuts them and kisses him again, tugging him against her by the front of his shirt, and she can feel the champagne sloshing on them a little as his mouth opens for her.

She lets him go afterwards, taking in a deep breath.

"You’re my best friend.”

He gives her a surprised little smile, like that’s the last thing he was expecting, but also like he’s touched.

“We should congratulate the bride and groom,” he says.  “Then, immediately go upstairs to your suite.”

His eyebrows raise at her as he turns away and starts walking slowly towards where May and Andrew are.

She watches him go for a moment, then catches up and hooks her arm around his middle, like they do in the field sometimes, only now it feels like a completely new gesture.

“You don’t think that’s rude?” she asks, leaning into him.

“No,” he says, wrapping his arm around her.

“I think we’ve earned it.”

 

#

She comes home and he’s sitting on the couch folding clothes and listening to some quiet jazz.

He glances up at her.

“Tony Stark.  What a jerk,” she says, shutting the door and walking toward him, huffing down into the empty spot on the couch.

Her gloves are coming off, and then she needs a glass of wine and a hot shower.

His thumbs press in between her shoulder blades, and he starts to push the tension out of her.

She groans and leans into it.

What she needs, is him.

Turning and pushing him up into the corner of the couch at all once, she knocks all his folding off the cushion.

He does want to say something about that, she can tell.  She’ll help him refold it later.

What he does do, is let her rip the t-shirt off over his head and pin his hips under hers against their couch.

 _Their_ couch.  That they picked out.

“Rough day, huh?” he mutters, running his hand over her breasts through the suit while he leans in to kiss along her jaw.

As she tugs down his shorts, she remembers that he wanted the gray microfiber one, but she talked him into brown leather that reminded her of their old base.

The couch they used to fool around on, after everyone went to bed, before it got blown up.  With the base.

“Yeah,” she answers, getting her fingers around him, watching him lose it while she gets him hard.

It’s the suit. Her. In the suit.

Superhero suit, technically.  That he designed.

His arms grip the side of the couch and he tries not to come as she tugs down her zipper with her free hand.

“You like this, huh?  So predictable,” she teases, getting a groan out of him.

This is not something they usually do with the suit.

It’s the last thing she wants on her mind when she’s home, and also it’s terribly expensive to get cleaned.

He sits up a bit and gets his hands on her ass, and pulls her against him, landing a hard kiss.

“You know this has to come off if you want to-“ she says, riding his arching hips, as his teeth catch her bottom lip.

He smiles against her mouth as his hand slides down between them and he works it down into her panties, trying to squeeze into the narrow fit.

“I’m totally going to do it with an Avenger,” he says, childishly, sliding his fingers inside of her, watching her laugh and get off at the same time.

His fingers curl in her, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in against her chest.

The gasping noises she’s making are getting louder, and she’s trying to control it, but he’s so good with his fingers.

“Mmph.  _Phil!"_ she yells sharply and then she hears it. 

Crying.

“Sorry,” she says, falling against his chest, as it rises and falls under her.  “I’ll go put her back down.  And then we can finish this?”

“It’s okay,” he says, giving her a quick kiss.  “Mommy’s had to deal with Tony Stark all day.”

He groans and yanks up his shorts as she sits up and lets him off of the couch.

“And you’re helping me fold those,” he says, pointing to the pile on the floor.

She sighs and sinks into the couch.

“After," he adds with a dirty grin.


End file.
